


stars hide your fires for these here are my desires

by maranhig



Category: Walking Dead RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, PWP, these two possess no moral compass whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:44:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maranhig/pseuds/maranhig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. andy wearing his wife's panties was supposed to be funny.<br/>2. "art lessons" means something else in their book.<br/>3. sixty-nining won't work if you keep laughing at each other.<br/>4. sean gives andy a terrifying shovel talk.<br/>5. shotgunning and stoned sex to end the day.<br/>6. eye in the dark doesn't like his human's boyfriend very much.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. slain by your zirconium smile

**Author's Note:**

> who knew all it took for these boys to be happy was to surgically remove their consciences, right? nothing major. :D  
> title by mumford & sons. the boys belong to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from laura veirs’ “magnetized.”

“Now are you glad you took that dare?” you ask him, looking up from the bruise you’ve artfully sucked onto his hip, a winning smile on your face.

Andy snorts, the sound morphing into a whine when you latch on to his quivering stomach, your thumb following the dark trail of hair that disappears into his underwear.

Well, it’s his wife’s underwear, and it should have looked ridiculous on him, which is why you triple-dog-dared him to steal it from Gael in the first place. He barged into your trailer and sulkily pulled down his jeans just far enough to show you that yes, he wore it on the way here, shut up. You were supposed to die laughing (the panties had laced edges, for God’s sake) and take pictures to show the others and that would be the end of it.

But because it’s Andrew fucking Lincoln, of course that plan backfired on you, and the polka dot red design against his pale skin made you think of fresh strawberries and cream. You suddenly couldn’t do anything beyond seeking out how every inch of his body tastes, the hidden places that confirm that he’s still more man than legend.

And that’s how you’ve ended up like this, on your knees with just a touch of your mouth pinning him to your trailer door, his hands twisting up your hair as you stroke him and slide the silk maddeningly over his skin.

He half-shouts “Oh, _fuck_ ,” clawing painlessly at your skull and arching like he’s been shocked, and you’re dizzy, fitting his ribs between your fingers like the black keys on an ivory piano, a perfect fit. You suck at him through the fabric, just three firm tries and he’s done for, wet heat seeping onto your tongue. He whimpers and keens when you keep milking him to the point of overstimulation.

“I just made you come like a teenager, dude, how cool is that,” you say, grinning smugly.

“Okay, okay, you’ve proved your point. Jesus, I’ve made a mess.” he groans, but there’s nothing but mirth in his drowsy blue eyes, and you get to your feet, snap the waistband of the panties against his ass and he yelps.

“Leave them on. We ain’t done here.”

His crazy pure happy laugh makes your chest expand so much it hurts, and his kiss is deep and stabilizing and you’ve never felt anything better in your life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this pic is mostly to blame => http://pistengyawa.tumblr.com/post/76529071636  
> 


	2. outside the rabbit hole is a candy shop of poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this hasn't been updated in a while. so here's a new one. it's really shitty but idek i've been sick for days forgive me.  
> mainly this thing (http://pistengyawa.tumblr.com/post/72287826817) is to blame. it's really clear why.  
> title from i am ghost's killer likes candy.

You step into the flat and your senses are immediately drenched in searing tints, the sharp stench of oil and charcoal and paint thinner, old newspapers completely covering the floor. Norman’s in nothing but a wifebeater that must’ve once been white, and ratty jogging pants just barely clinging to his hips. He squints at the random splashes of paint on the canvas before him as if puzzling the very beginning and end of life itself. He scratches absently at his stomach, leaves a streak of blue beside his navel. You don’t drop to your knees then and there, but it’s a near thing.

“Hey hey!” he says once he finally notices your presence, genuinely stoked, and to this day you don’t understand how someone can be so pleased to see you over and over, whether it’s months or mere minutes in between. “Didn’t think you’d turn up.”

You laugh, tell him as you shrug off your jacket, “I didn’t think I would either. But it’s not every day I get to learn how to flick paint at things and call it art.”

He snorts. “It’s called _abstract_ , you uncultured dick.” But there’s something endearingly soft in the set of his smile, the curve of his neck, and you clear your throat, undress down to your boxers and not once does his gaze leave yours.

You step over to him, paper crackling like dry leaves under your bare feet, and he arches an eyebrow at you. “You got extra clothes set aside for you, y’know.” Yet his paintbrush is clenched tightly in his hand, breath picking up ever so slightly the closer you get. You don’t stop until you’re nose to nose, until you can see the black in his eyes eat up the blue.

“I want you as my canvas,” you whisper, curling your fingers like question marks around the hem of his shirt, tugging gently. He lets out a low windless sound before nodding, and lets you strip him then lay him back against the newspapers. Your heart is going at nine hundred miles an hour.

You dip your fingers in the nearest can, stroke a line of green from the hollow of his throat to his sternum, bisecting. His ribcage heaves but he stays still otherwise, and by the time you’ve coated his chest and thighs and the backs of his knees he’s trembling, moaning “god _damn_ it andy just fuck me already before i pass out please you fucker please.”

Well, you’ve never been any good at telling him no.

He scrabbles to get on all fours when you flip him over and work him open with nothing but tongue, honest to god snarling at you when you try to get up to find a condom, lube. But your worry only lasts a short while, shoved over the cliff by the arch in his spine as you push in slow, so s l o w. You feel like passing out yourself, watching sweat pool in the dip of his shoulder blades, the newspapers crumpling under his fingers as he swears brokenly. You pull back a bit then rock forward, and he stifles a whimper, his whole upper half meeting the floor like he can’t stay upright.

When you cradle his jaw to give him an indulgent kiss and he almost bites through your lip, it occurs to you that not even Renaissance painters would be able to capture how beautiful Norman is like this.


	3. my devil has fallen in love with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hjfc this hasn’t been updated in a while, sorry, folks. gonna try to polish these up in between jailbait!daryl stuff.  
> crossposted on tumblr! title is vaguely from them RHCP people. sixty-nining is from whichever weirdo thought that up.

The first time you try to do it, it’s a complete and utter failure.

For a month now you’ve done nothing but make out in your trailer and rub each other off inside your shorts, the lights switched off and Norman breathing hot on your throat, his teeth scraping and leaving the most infinitesimal of marks. All stupid kid stuff, and still so very surreal; for years you’ve done nothing but look, and you still have to remind yourself that you can now touch, and pin down, and kiss senseless.

He’s still obnoxious by day, stealing half your Twix bar in one chomp, switching out the sugar for your coffee with salt, ridiculous unfounded pranks, and you’re only half annoyed by him, more giddy and freaked out, your default setting by this point.

Then tonight, once he’s tugged your pants and boots off your legs, he takes his mouth away from the curved ridge of your hip, his chin sliding over the slick patch he made as he tells you, “I wanna try something.”

You can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you, because there’s a predatory glint to Norman’s grin, way too gorgeous for anybody’s good, and all you can manage is, “yeah, god, yeah, anything.”

It’s not until he gets on all fours with his arms braced against your thighs that you get the full picture, and you can only gape at him when he throws a careless grin at you over his shoulder. “Chop, chop, Andrew,” he says, right before he swallows you down.

And then, with your tongue teasing at the head of Norman’s cock, as he groans and takes you in deeper, you think with perfect clarity, _two middle-aged men will do sixty-nine now_ , and you can’t stop laughing.

You couldn’t have said why. It’s just that particular moment, that particular neon thought lighting up your mind, funny for no good reason, a dirty joke in church or a knock-knock joke in the middle of an orgy, and your whole body shakes with it.

Norman’s mouth and warmth leaves you abruptly. “What the fuck?” he exclaims, understandably miffed.

“It, it’s okay, Norm,” you manage through hiccuping laughter, even as he huffs and turns around to sit on your stomach, glaring at you. “C’mon, lemme try again –”

But he’s starting to chuckle too, shaking his head like he can’t help it. “You’re incorrigible,” he huffs, and that sparks another bout of ill-fitting giggles from you, until you’re both limp and winded with laughter, stars exploding in your chest. Neither of you are hard anymore but you don’t care. Norman and his trembling shoulders and his clingy octopus arms are just as good.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you do wake up to Norman biting the back of your neck and trailing slick fingers down to your ass, and you murmur happily, willing to see this endeavor to the end this time.


	4. sucker baker candlestick maker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was written in an hour (the horror!), purely for shits and giggles. title from mirah's girland. i dunno, it just sounds like something sean would say. because this is from his POV after all, if anyone gets confused.

You’ve already made sure Donut’s asleep and are about to bed down yourself when the call comes.

You huff and narrow your eyes at the wall opposite you, imagining yourself casually cocking a shotgun and pointing it straight at one Andrew Lincoln’s groin before answering your phone. “Hi Normski,” you say, bright as sunshine and kittens, cool as a cucumber. No horrendous motives at all.

“Hope you weren’t sleeping already, asshole.” Norman’s voice is fond despite the static fuzzing its edges, and you’re glad that the ungrateful pup must miss you as much as you miss him. “You said next time we talked you wanted to talk to Andy first, right?”

“Damn right, so you get his scrawny behind over here so – dude, am I on speaker?”

There’s a scuffle, what might be muffled laughter, and a poorly-concealed pause right before he says, “no.”

Exhaling noisily into the receiver, you lie down fully against your pillows, already bracing yourself to deal with these _children_. “I can hear the echo, sweetie, I’m not a fuckin’ idiot. So he’s there, yeah?”

Someone clears their throat, then Andrew’s posh English accent dampened to a meek, “Hey, Sean.” It’s good that he’s meek, or at least pretending to be. He should be quaking in his zombie-guts-soaked boots.

“Andy!” you cry out happily. “Right then. So Gael knows about the two of you?”

You can practically hear the gears in his brain stalling. Apparently he doesn’t know that Norm shared that whopper of information with you. “Uh, yeah, she does.” There’s a thwap and an undignified yelp, and you say sharply, “Oi, fight it out later. And she’s okay with it?”

“Yeah…yeah, as long as I come home to her and the kids at the end of everything, she’s fine. She even said that it’d be better so I don’t pick up any groupies along the way.”

“Norm _is_ your number one groupie, idiot,” you mutter, and grin hard enough to hurt when Norman yells, “You’re on speaker, you freak,” before Andy shuts him up.

And so you go in for the kill. “Alrighty then. Hurt him and I will maim you as slowly as possible. I’ve been in enough action films to know how. Capische?”

“Sean,” Norman whines, stretching your name into eight syllables, acting the part of whiny teenage girl to a T. “Don’t scare him off! Or maim his face. Or his dick. Those are his only redeeming qualities, after all.”

Andy’s affronted squawk is reward enough for all your troubles, though you hang up once he starts purring, “Remind me again exactly what you said about my dick when I was fucking you last night –” because no amount of yoga will be able to cleanse your mind of whatever the hell will happen next. You’ve already established that Andy’s not a bad nut, anyway.

“Good luck to him trying to keep that toddler under control,” you mutter to yourself, finally killing the lights. “So glad that’s not my job anymore.”


	5. a pretty night for running wild with devil’s eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry about the dry spell; real life really disrupts your writing mojo.  
> title by the haplessly named band poets and pornstars. i haven't actually done shotgunning, but i'm glad it exists.

You're not exactly straight-laced, far from it; you're married to a rock star's daughter, after all. But you like to think that your wild days are over, so whenever Norman comes into your trailer stoned blind and smiling much too sweetly, you know enough to push him a cold shower and get him to bed, and nothing further. The day scenes are getting more and more intense, and while Norman feels he needs to unwind that way, you need to stay focused, stay in Rick's skin.

That doesn't mean Norman doesn't try to get his way, though.

"C'mon, man, this is some excellent shit Greg's bought tonight," he says, pressing a smoldering kiss into the space just under your ear.

You snort at the jay pinched between his three fingers, fold that outstretched arm back towards its owner. "I should tell that guy to stop enabling you," you say for the hundredth time, an empty habitual threat.

Norman giggles, eyes wide and dark and watching no one but you. "C'mere," he says, and tugs at you until you climb off the bed beside him into his lap. You tip your head back on reflex, baring your throat and he smiles against your pulse. That should have warned you of what was to come, but, well. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

The hand not squeezing your ass takes the jay from Norman's mouth and cups your jaw. He strokes your lips with his thumb and you suck at it indolently, just to be a brat.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing down on your tongue and he kisses you with his thumb still in your mouth, smoke sliding damp and rich onto the back of your throat and escaping in little tendrils around your faces when you breathe out.

You pull away and your face must've wrinked up with suppressed tears because Norman laughs until his cheeks glow an appealing pink. You lick your lips, chasing the rank-sweet taste of weed, and lean back in for more.


	6. coitus interruptus via felidae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what the title says. not kidding. this kinda ventured into the realm of r-rated crack. here's the [kitty in question](http://pistengyawa.tumblr.com/post/77142375969/bigbaldhead-another-cat-toy-destroyed-monster), in case you don't know. (oh, and happy new year.)

You trip and stumble down the hall, Andy’s mouth on the back of your neck like an obscene promise, your bodies tied up together and slumping against walls. “Geroff me,” you half-gasp, half-laugh. Your keys seem to sink deeper into your pockets, evading your grip, and he’s just being counterproductive to your quest.

“Hang the bloody door,” he growls, biting at your shoulder through layers of fabric. You’re both so very drunk. “Could just do it right here.”

That would be awesome, except you’re still coherent enough to remember the security cameras placed throughout the building. It takes a few more minutes, but you get inside the apartment at last, and turn around to kiss him, leading him backwards through the space and groaning when you keep bumping into inconvenient furniture.  

He shoves you onto your bed, eyes gone that true black as he pulls off your pants, the heel of his hand rucking up your shirt so he can suck on your hipbone, wet slash of sparks. He’s about to pull his shirt off when Eye in the Dark jumps on the mattress, rubbing against your bare calf and what the fuck, what the _fuck_.

You don’t know why you’re still surprised. Recently your pet has taken it upon himself to play chaperone, the bastard.

Andy sits back, glaring bloody murder at your cat weaving himself under your knee. “I will fucking shoot and skin you alive, dude,” you huff at him, pushing him off the bed with your foot, and Eye in the Dark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, sashaying out the room with a smug air.

When you glance beside you, Andy has already passed out, snoring with his arms dangling off the side of the bed.

You settle back with a sigh, and drag the blankets up to cover the both of you, completing the tally in your head before you sleep.

Chastity Cat – 3; you and Andy – zilch. At this rate, you’re gonna have to wait until the shooting break is over just so you can fuck your boyfriend without the cat barging in wanting cuddles.

And Andy must have grown tired of this too, since the following morning after breakfast the first thing he does is sit down on the floor, in front of Eye in the Dark. “Right,” he says, as loud as a general addressing his troops, “I don’t know what your problem is with me, but I like your human a lot, and I’d like to screw his brains out for as long as logically possible without you interrupting in fits of jealousy. Are you okay with that?”

Your hands are shaking from restrained mirth when you start filming the scene for posterity, and so you capture the way Eye in the Dark sniffs at Andy’s outstretched hand, looks up at him with a ridiculously unimpressed face, and slinks under the sofa.

“Um. Is that good?” Andy sounds so bewildered that you finally do laugh, and pull him to his feet, kissing his bare shoulder.

“Good enough. Now, you said something about screwing my brains out for as long as logically possible?”

 _As long as logically possible_ turns out to mean two hours, with you flat on your back as he rides you at a painstaking, toe-curling, sinful pace.

(There might be some scratching at the locked bedroom door, as well as petulant whining, but neither of you mind.)

**Author's Note:**

> more to come, i promise. check out dem other ideas [here](http://pistengyawa.tumblr.com/post/74460213052/i-have-a-laundry-list-of-leedus-ideas-im-just).  
> EDIT: i'm done with this series, sorry. don't have the drive for it anymore.


End file.
